


Kill You Goodbye

by Dctr



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Post-Fall of Overwatch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:36:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28711359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dctr/pseuds/Dctr
Summary: It was easier surviving when you've forgotten your own name.
Relationships: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Kill You Goodbye

You don't remember a time you didn't _despise_ Jack Morrison. 

Or rather, you didn't allow yourself to remember.

Years of conditioning and hatred made you transform yourself into what the world knows now as 'The Reaper': ruthless, killing husk whose streak of murders never seemed to cease. You were contented with what you'd chosen to become. Having the world fear you was less painful than having to fear yourself alone.

It was easier surviving when you've forgotten your own name.  


You've had your fair share of vengeance throughout it all. Though wiping another faceless agent's name off Overwatch's list never failed to bring you satisfaction, there was always deep, dark voice which wondered—did you ever have a meal with him? Was she one of the agents you'd exchange small talk with in the corridors? Did any of them remember the name you've chosen to forget?

As quickly as the sparks of these thoughts came, you would stub them out. They were numbers, not people you once knew.

  
  
There were nights where you awoke with a jolt, gasping desperately, hands clawing at the sheets as the nightmare you'd just flung yourself out of came pouring back.

  
_"Rough night?"_

_Jack's gruff voice, a statement more than a question. Sometimes, you wondered if you woke him from his slumber or he had simply not slept at all._

_A noncommittal hum from you. Fabric rustling, telltale feet shuffling across the cold tiles; you didn't have to feel the dip of your mattress under his weight to know that he was crawling into your bed._

_It wasn't the first time and you knew it wouldn't be the last. In the days, you'd hold him as injections tore at his body, watched as he retched his guts out after. In the nights, he'd hold you as nightmares tore at your mind, pulled you out from sea of bodies threatening to take you under._

_Neither of you said a word because nothing needed to be said._

_Both of you knew well enough how war worked: it chipped away bits of your soul with every bullet you fired, until your own name tasted foreign on your tongue. Killing dozens didn't make killing the next one any easier._

_Back pressed to him, you felt the soft rise and fall of his chest as he steadied his breathing, arm draped over your torso._

  
In the mornings he'd be gone, leaving you cold and decayed once again.

  
  
The last meeting had ended on a terrible note, you'd almost had the chance to finish him off before Ana intervened. The presence of her hadn't pissed you as much as remembering all the times she picked _him_ instead of you.

They had left you to die in the rubble on that day. An unreclaimable part of you had disappeared together with your name in the explosion—looking back on it, you realized that you'd died long before the accident happened. Was it even an accident?

Jack Morrison, golden boy. Bright blue eyes still shining behind the haze of dust and debris, mouth wrapped around words that never reached your ears.

You swore to carve those eyes off his face the next time you meet.

  
  
_"I miss you," he said, shot glass in one hand and a look you can't quite place in his eyes._

_The both of you had reconvened in a run-down bar in the evening, following the debrief of the Rialto Blackwatch mission that'd gone askew, as the UN had put it. You accepted the invite out of courtesy than anything else._

_It had been weeks, no, months since the two of you talked. You chalked it up to work but you knew it wasn't true. Once in a while, you passed each other in the hallways. He had given you lingering looks to which you dutifully ignored, stepping past him in favor of going anywhere that didn't involve Jack Morrison._

_"We've been busy," you replied, though you knew he didn't mean miss in such a literal sense._

_He missed who you once were._

_The Reyes who was still full of life and naivety. Who didn't see Overwatch as the sinking ship it was, didn't look past the plaster smiles on everyone's faces to see the festering rot that plagued it right down to the very core._

_He missed the Reyes who still believed he had a shot at changing the world together with Jack. The one who'd sworn they would always have each other's back no matter what the world threw at them._

_His eyes were searching and it took all of your willpower to not give in, crack open beneath him and bleed out what was on your mind for the past months._

_Some part of you desperately wanted him to finally realize how much you've changed and why you did the things you'd done. Hoped for him to understand, drop the facade of pretending Overwatch was perfect, that diplomacy in the face of war would always triumph._

_Because you still believed that truly, he would always have your back._

_"Yeah, we have," he said and left it at that._

  
  
Instead of chasing after the shell of a man you once knew, you let him come to you.

It's only when you're sitting in the crumbling space of what used to be that run-down bar did you realize that you're truly, finally _tired_.

You've been masking it for so long with bouts of anger and denial that you don't realize how much of it has claimed you—the weight of unspoken words that's been sitting on your tongue, your rotting excuse of a body adding to the war you're constantly fighting with yourself.

Above all, you're tired of knowing he broke the one promise that kept both of you whole throughout years of brutal SEP training and the even more brutal ones that followed.

It'll end here now. You'll tie up the last loose end of your vengeance streak with a bullet through his head.

  
  
Dusk's beginning to fall, coating the sky with rusted grays. You briefly consider the possibility that he isn't coming. Maybe he had moved on a long time ago, just another tally to the list of things he was better at doing compared to you.

Then you hear it. The telltale sign of his footsteps he still hasn't managed to silence over all these years, followed by the angry red glow of his tactical visor piercing through the dimly-lit area. Except this time, he isn't carrying his pulse rifle, a stark contrast to your Hellfires at the ready.

"I didn't come here to fight," he states blankly.

"A pity," you growl, already feeling the familiar experience of detachment with yourself as you wraith towards him.

A tackle is all it takes to throw him to the ground, as if he really meant what he said—that he didn't come here to fight. It only fuels your blinding rage even more.

"What game are you playing, Morrison?"

The barrel of your shotgun hits the temple of his head, clawed finger skirting the trigger. His visor masks the eyes you've long forgotten, but you don't miss the way his breath hitches in his throat before he speaks.

"I miss you," he chokes out. "I miss you so fucking much, Gabe."

And suddenly all you see is Jack, unmarred face, gold hair and those _damned bright blue eyes._

"I miss you too," Gabriel says in the back of your head.  


Somewhere in between, you hear the heavy thud of your shotgun as it falls to the ground.

You remember running to anywhere that didn't involve Jack Morrison.


End file.
